Saturday, October 27, 2012

a house made of matchsticks

From the tick bluck mudden
I, an off-key creaking, grokked 
of oak staves swilled to burst
and was thirsty to be Gehäuse.

As the creaking strained or dripped
and the cooper droned or tripped,
I parched me tithe naked and alone.

Mitt mein sliding in dein Wald
me sotted softly down erect,
moistly tannin on your dregs-

can the harvest even matter
when one true thing is known?